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She tried it, licking her lip when the foam stuck to it. It was heavy and rich and somehow tangy. She took another mouthful.

“Like it?” he asked after clearing his throat.

“I do, actually. Thank you.”

The innkeeper chuckled from the other side of the bar. “Never had beer—that’s a fine lady for you. But you’re starting with the best.”

“Did you brew it yourself?” she asked.

“Me mam used to,” the innkeeper said. She had bright green eyes, shrewd and cheerful. “She taught me a trick or two.” She motioned to her son as Bram poked his head out the door to see if the horses were ready. “Bring out the hampers,” she ordered the boy before turning back to Clara. “He’s a big one,” she said, following her gaze to Bram. “Handsome too, despite the scars and those odd markings.”

“I like his scars. And his tattoos.”

She winked. “We always do. So where are you off to, then? Gretna Green?”

“No,” Clara choked out. Not that eloping with Bram did not sound like a very fine plan. “Eastbourne Hall.”

The innkeeper’s face changed, the good cheer fading. Her smile dropped entirely. “The marquis’s house party, is it? A fair few of you are traveling down that way.”

“I imagine so.” Clara took another sip, wondering if she should say something else. The undercurrents were deep and dark. She did not know how to navigate them.

“Have a care,” the innkeeper added, saving her the trouble. “That one’s clearly watching out for you, but even so, girls go missing at Eastbourne Hall.”

Clara set down her mug. “They do?” Had the innkeeper seen Sybil? Heloise? “Did you know any of them?”

The woman shook her head, refusing to say more. “Go home, your ladyship. It’s not worth it.”

Going home was not an option.

Chapter Six

Eastbourne Hall looked like something carved out of sugar instead of a house where women went missing. The gatehouse was sculpted with wreaths and lions and every curlicue the physical space would allow. The laneway curved gracefully through an oak grove to bring the carriage to a stop in the shadow of the great manor house.

The white walls dripped with decorative ivy. There were several turrets, and rows of Tudor chimney stacks lined up like toy soldiers. The extensive gardens were shedding their winter dresses of frost and ice. Tulips and daffodils brightened the bare shrubbery. Silk garlands of roses draped from the windows. Even Clara, whose own father was an ostentatious spendthrift who had once had all of his waistcoat buttons replaced with diamonds, had never seen the like.

She immediately felt like a tiny gray mouse about to be batted by a sleek cat wearing a pearl collar.

They were shown to the very last available room, which was situated in the dower house. There was another lady staying there who had already joined the other guests, which the housekeeper informed Clara with a slight sniff that did not bode particularly well. She stared at Bram. “I’m sure I don’t know where to put you, sir,” Mrs. Meadows said. “You won’t fit in the attic rooms, I can tell you that.”

“Captain Bram Thorn will require a guest room,” Clara said sharply, so there was no confusion on that score.

The housekeeper winced. “No offense meant, my lady. But we are out of rooms entirely. I believe even the village inn is full. Some guests are sleeping two towns away.”

“I see,” Clara said. She wondered now whom she shared the dower house with, given that no one else had taken up the opportunity. Or been offered it.

“I’ll sleep on the settee.” Bram nodded to the parlor and the chairs clustered around the fireplace.

Mrs. Meadows looked relieved but torn. She clicked her tongue. “A war hero on the settee.”

He smiled. “It’s better than many a hammock on a ship, I assure you.” He glanced at Clara, adding in an undertone, “And I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Mrs. Meadows was already fussing. “I’ll make sure they bring bedding and only the best tea trays. Do you care for scones? And shortbread, I reckon.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart, Mrs. Meadows,” Bram said.

Mrs. Meadows blushed. Clara knew exactly how she felt. The soft burr of his voice, the kind, steady eyes. They were all very effective, especially from such a great height.

“Mrs. Meadows,” Clara said, perfectly willing to take advantage of Bram’s effect on the older woman. It made for a nice change that she was not the one currently moon-eyed over him. It took a remarkable amount of discipline. She’d never seen him wield that particular smile. It sent small, soft tingles through her. “I wonder if you could tell me where Miss Taunton is?”